


and I'm a goddamn coward (but then again so are you)

by colourexplosion



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-03 13:59:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colourexplosion/pseuds/colourexplosion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>jackson/reid told through a series of chapters set after different episodes</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> set after episodes 1-5ish of the first season

The tile in the deadroom is bright white and clean in a way that Jackson doesn’t recognize. He’s used to the film of filth that covers everything-- the filth that clogs the ridges in his fingertips. Jackson’s used to being lost in the dust of it all; disappearing against the soot-blackened buildings. He sticks out in the deadroom. A disgusting blemish that stains the clean tile. 

Jackson’s head begins to ache if he finds himself in there too long.

But, it was a gift-- Jackson’s not stupid enough to take it as anything else-- and he can’t reject it. 

So, he uses it. He does what Reid wants and runs his tests and examines body after body after body after body. He buries himself deep in the crime world during the day and Rose’s cunt during the night. He’s not a good man, and he doesn’t need to be. Reid may have wiped his slate clean, but that doesn’t mean he can forget. It doesn’t mean he stops having nightmares full of blood and gunpowder that he wakes from drenched in cold sweat. 

He sleeps as little as he can, which is how he ends up in the deadroom, face pressed against the cool tile as he lays on the floor. Not the most dignified position, he knows, but his head’s been killing him. In a manner of speaking. 

He tilts his head to the side when he hears the door to the station open. Morning already? No, there’s still no light in the room, save for what streams in the windows from the street lamps. He hears the slow, heavy _clunk_ of shoes making their way across the stone floor. Toward the deadroom. 

It doesn’t occur to Jackson that he should be frightened. 

The door to the deadroom squeaks open and Jackson doesn’t look to see who it is. He just presses his face to the tile once more. 

“Jackson?” It’s Reid. He sounds as if he’s seen a ghost. Perhaps he has.

“At your service,” Jackson says from the floor, forcing himself to roll over onto his back. 

A look flashes over Reid’s face, one that Jackson would have called a fond smile if it had come from anyone else. It’s gone in a second though, and replaced by a frown. 

“What are you still doing here? It’s late.” 

“Is it?” Jackson raises an eyebrow at him. “I had no idea.” 

“Don’t be flippant, Jackson, you know you aren’t permitted here after hours. No matter how invaluable you may be.” 

“Station never closes, doesn’t make any sense that I can’t be in here.” 

“Because I say you can’t. That’s all the sense it needs to make.” 

“You’re so stiff, Christ. Loosen up a little, won’t you?” 

Reid raises an eyebrow and Jackson’s sure he’s about to be physically vaulted from the station, but Reid just takes another step into the deadroom, removing his hat. He sets it on the examination table and shrugs out of his coat with a wince. 

And then he sits himself on the floor next to Jackson and stretches out on his back. It takes all of Jackson’s self control not to look down the long line of his body or curl into his body heat. 

They lay in silence for a long time. 

“Thank you,” Jackson says finally. He hears Reid’s head turn toward him. 

“For what?” 

Jackson stares hard at the ceiling. “This place.” Everything. 

“Everyone deserves a second chance, Captain.” 

\---

Reid’s house is cold and stale and not what Jackson expected at all. 

The air is musty and there’s a thin layer of dust that covers almost every room. 

“I’m surprised, Inspector. I would have taken you for the type to have a maid,” he quips and Reid answers by turning around to pin him to the wall in a smooth movement. 

They fuck in Reid’s bed, hard and messy like always. Jackson ignores the stench of the wife’s perfume in the sheets as Reid bears down on him from behind, breath hot on his neck, hands hard on his thighs, fingers digging into the muscle. Jackson’s fingers curl in the sheets as Reid shudders above him, bites his shoulder to keep quiet. (An old habit; there’s no reason for anyone to interrupt them here.)

Reid pulls back and flips Jackson over, sliding down his body to finish him off with his mouth. Jackson tugs him up, kisses him-- hard and biting-- and licks the taste from his mouth. 

As usual, Reid settles into sleep easily afterward, but Jackson can’t shake the smell of his wife. The room stinks of sex and sweat-- of _them_ , but just under it Jackson can detect the faintest aroma of roses. It gets too strong and his head starts to ache, so Jackson slides out from under Reid’s arm and slips out the door, taking a deep breath. 

The problem is the house feels like it hasn’t been aired out in a decade. The air is musty and every time Jackson tries to take a breath in, he ends up choking on it. He makes his way down a hall and into the first room he finds, heading for the window to throw it open and take a deep, gasping breath. He stares out of it for awhile before coming back in, closing it behind him. 

When he turns, he realizes he’s in a child’s room-- a little girl’s from the looks of it. Dolls and stuffed bears everywhere, a lacy bedspread. It has to be a girl’s. The thing is, though, that it looks unused. He passes a finger over the top of a wardrobe and it comes back dusty. 

Matilda’s room, then. 

Jackson sits on the floor next to the door and stares at the window. What is he doing here? This is a stupid way to get himself arrested or killed-- fucking around with the Inspector of H Division. In his own home. In the bed he shares with his wife. Jackson thinks about it until the sun peeks through the window and he stands, making his way back to Reid, bone-tired and more exhausted than he has any right to be. 

He sits carefully on the edge of the bed, looking at Reid who’s curled himself around his pillow. Jackson smiles, fond, and reaches out a hand to stroke through his hair. Reid stirs, makes a soft noise, but doesn’t seem to wake. 

“What are we doing, Reid?” Jackson mutters, stroking his hand through Reid’s hair again. Reid makes another noise and stirs again. 

“Hmm?” Reid cracks an eye open and Jackson rolls his eyes. 

“Nothin’, go back to sleep.” 

Reid makes another soft noise and reaches out, a large hand going to his ribs and pulling him closer. Tugging him into the bed. Jackson lets himself go with Reid’s urgings; lets himself get pulled under his solid, warm weight and stares at the ceiling. 

“Sleep,” Reid murmurs in his ear, voice low and gravelly, making something familiar stir low in Jackson’s belly. He obliges.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> set after episode 6 of the first season-- contains spoilers, naturally

They end up at the Jewish orphanage when they discover the body of a child at an explosion site. No one’s claimed him, and after Jackson’s autopsy of the body, Reid figures Ms. Goren’s the best bet for an identification. 

He doesn’t start to notice anything odd until Reid’s hand passes over her hip in a fashion that’s all too familiar. His skin burns, jealous, and he turns away sharply. Drake raises an eyebrow. 

“What?” Jackson doesn’t mean to snap, but Drake doesn’t seem to put off by it. He shakes his head. 

“Didn’t expect you to have such a sense of propriety, is all.” 

Jackson raises an eyebrow at him and glances back to Reid and Ms. Goren. Reid touches her upper arm and smiles, and bile sears the back of Jackson’s throat. He looks back to Drake, who nods. 

“Walked in on them kissing, last time we was here,” he murmurs, and Jackson wonders how long it’s been, how many times Reid’s come here on his own to fuck the Jewess. He wonders if her moans rack a shudder from Reid’s body like his does, or whether he presses bruises into her skin. 

“A damn shame,” Jackson says, and it’s Drake’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “What he’s doing to Mrs. Reid, I mean.” 

Drake nods in agreement, and the approaching sound Reid’s heavy footsteps keep them from saying anything more. 

\---

“Captain, a word, if you please,” Reid says, just as Jackson’s about to leave his office after the meeting with Drake and Hobbs. Drake throws him a look-- they have a weekly appointment at the pub that Jackson’s not eager to miss. There’s a man owes him five quid and Drake’s exactly the kind of back up he needs. 

“What can I do you for, Inspector?” he asks, eyeing the way Reid shuts the door behind Drake’s back. Reid turns, eyes blazing and crosses to him in three strides, an arm going around his waist and the other cradling his head much more gently than it has any right to. 

Jackson’s hands come up to Reid’s chest, pushing him away. Reid pulls him closer, harder. He must think it’s a game. _Too bad it’s fucking not,_ Jackson thinks, his inner monologue almost as bitter as the taste in his mouth. He pushes again, harder. 

“Not tonight, Inspector, pressing matters to attend to,” he says, taking a step back. Reid’s face falls as his hands do, and Jackson thinks he sees a brief flash of hurt before it’s replaced with a glossy smile. It’s meant to be seductive, no doubt, but it makes Jackson’s stomach churn. 

“Cancel it, move it, I don’t care,” Reid says, voice pitched low like he knows how hot Jackson gets at the sound of it. He reaches out, takes Jackson’s hand while his free one curls around Jackson’s hip-- “I have a pressing matter to attend to _here_ ”-- and slides it down to press into his crotch. 

Jackson arches away from him, grabs Reid’s hand and twists it up behind his back. It’s the uninjured shoulder, so it shouldn’t hurt much, but Reid’s got the worst tolerance for pain that Jackson’s ever encountered. Reid looks down at him as Jackson stares up, and his brow furrows. Jackson sees it click in his mind. 

“I’m not your whore,” Jackson snarls, letting Reid go with one final push. Reid stands where the push leaves him, a hand on his chest where Jackson’s had been. Jackson makes for the door.

“Jackson, I--” 

The door slams, drowning out whatever lame excuse Reid had been about to spew at him. Jackson doesn’t need his excuses. They’re not-- they aren’t anything except two men who fuck around. It doesn’t mean anything. Jackson knows that. Which is why it doesn’t matter that he won’t spend the first night in almost ten days sneaking somewhere for a quick fuck. He’ll go back to his room in the whorehouse instead. Yes, that sounds like a much better idea.

\---

The pub is smoke-filled and reeks of bodily fluids. Not uncommon for any place in London, really, but Jackson’s used to the smell of stale linens and too-ripe flowers. The smoke prickles at his nostrils and stings in the back of his throat. He drinks another glass of whiskey to cover it up. 

“Quite a few tonight,” Drake says, looking at the empty glass that Jackson’s just put down. Jackson shrugs a shoulder and looks hard at the table top. 

“Had more on worse days,” he says, and Drake doesn’t press the matter. That’s what Jackson likes about Drake: he knows when to keep his mouth shut. 

And yeah, there’s a certain camaraderie there, and a certain understanding between them. Jackson would fuck him if he thought Drake was into that kind of thing, but he still seems pretty hung up on Rose, so Jackson figures it’s best to leave him be. Besides, if he gets on the wrong side of Drake, he’ll have lost both his friends other than Susan. And God knows he can only stand so much of the woman. 

He and Drake part ways, and Jackson stumbles back to his room.

\---

He enters the room to find Reid standing in the center of it, worrying his bowler between his hands. Jackson sighs and shuts the door with a _click_ , leans his back against it. Fucking Susan letting him in. They’ll need to have a chat soon.

“Inspector,” he says, tilting his head, and Reid waves him off. 

“I don’t think that you are,” Reid blurts, one massive hand crumpling half of his hat. Jackson raises an eyebrow. “My whore, I mean. I don’t consider you-- that.” 

“I don’t give a shit,” Jackson says, and Reid frowns. “About what you think of me, that is.” That would imply that Jackson has some emotional investment in this affair. 

“Oh?” Reid says, and Jackson can tell by the way he’s gone tight around the eyes that he’s trying not to sound pathetic and sad. 

“Yeah.” Jackson walks closer, plucks the bowler from Reid’s hands and straightens it out. “You think whatever you want about me, Inspector, ‘cause this?” He places the hat back on Reid’s head and gestures between them. “It’s over.” 

Reid stares at him for a moment, and Jackson can see the rage flushing up his neck and the way his mouth has gone tight. He opens it, but then seems to think better and closes it. 

Jackson takes a step back and looks away. “I trust you can see yourself out.” 

He feels Reid’s stare on him for a moment longer before Reid’s storming his way out. Jackson listens to his footsteps down the hall and to the door, and the final slam. He takes a deep breath, and then goes to his own door, sticking his head in the hall. 

“ROSE.” He’s bellowing. Susan will complain, he knows. Rose sticks her head out of her room, eyebrow raised. “You’re mine tonight.”

“Ms. said no more--” 

“I know what she said. I don’t care. I expect you in here in ten minutes.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in the dead space between episode 6 and 7

“Hobbs, what is that on your neck?” Reid sounds absolutely horrified, even at this distance. Jackson peeks through the glass of the deadroom to watch as Hobbs turns red and starts to sputter. 

“Looks like a bruise to me, sir,” Drake says, saving the poor boy, and Jackson chuckles. 

“It looks like a-- a--” Reid can’t seem to finish his statement, and Jackson can’t pass up an opportunity like this. 

“A what, Inspector?” he says, and they all turn sharply toward him. Hobbs looks like he’d rather get shot than have this conversation, as does Reid, but Drake’s all hidden smiles. The ass. That’s why Jackson likes him. 

“A lovebite,” Reid says, deadpan, and Jackson’s eyebrows raise. 

“Well, I’ll be. About time someone marked the kid up,” he says, giving Hobbs a wink that makes the boy sputter. “Looks like he’s askin’ for it, don’t you agree?” 

Drake looks away, brings a hand up to cover his mouth while Jackson and Reid stare at each other. Reid looks away and Jackson smiles. 

“What can you tell us about this body, Jackson?” he asks, and Jackson obliges. 

\---

The door to the deadroom closes with a sharp _snap_ and Jackson straightens, but doesn’t turn. 

“Something I can do for you?” he asks, knowing, _knowing_ it has to be Reid. 

“You could tell me what your mark’s doing all over the youngest man on this force, for starters,” Reid says, and Jackson bites back a laugh. 

“Hardly any of your business,” he says, picking up the forceps and transferring a sample onto a slide. He puts the slide down on the microscope and leans down to look through it. It’s only a moment before he feels Reid’s body heat surrounding him, feels him pressing against his back. 

“It’s my business where your mouth goes,” Reid says, _growls_ into Jackson’s ear, and he can’t help but scoff. 

“Take it you aren’t real clear on the definition of ‘over’, are ya?” 

“I am aware of the definition; I choose to ignore it,” Reid says, his hands coming to rest on Jackson’s hips. Jackson drives his elbow into Reid’s ribs, not hard enough completely disarm him, but enough to make him step back with a groan. Jackson slips out from between Reid and the edge of the counter. Reid leans both hands on the edge, breathing heavily. 

“You need somethin’ Reid?” Jackson asks, pulling out a cigarette and resting it in his mouth, fishing for his matches. 

Reid sighs and turns to look at him. “I cannot do this any longer.” 

“Do what?” Jackson raises an eyebrow. “Last I checked, I ended it, Inspector. Nothing to worry about.”

“That is precisely what I mean. We can’t go on like this-- I cannot go on like this.” 

Well, that’s news to Jackson. “Seems pretty unfair to your wife,” he says, finally finding his matchbook deep in his pocket. He tears one out and lights it, taking care to light the cigarette. 

Reid looks away from him for a moment, and then back. “I wasn’t aware you had such high moral standards,” he says, his voice like ice and Jackson meets his gaze, blows smoke at him. 

“Even I have the good grace to feel remorse for fucking over a nice person,” Jackson spits, and for a moment, Reid looks as though he might hit him. Then he sags, leaning heavily on the counter again. 

“And do I not deserve happiness?” His voice is small, quiet, like he’s not actually talking to Jackson. “Is this further punishment for my sins? I do nothing but grieve and I thought you, of all people would--” 

Jackson takes a step closer. “Would what?” 

Reid looks up and meets his gaze. Not for the first time, Jackson feels as though he’s been punched in the chest by the look on his face alone. 

“Would understand,” Reid says. 

Jackson stays quiet for a moment, taking another drag of his cigarette before putting it out on the metal examination table. He takes another step closer, puts a hand to Reid’s cheek, gentle. Reid closes his eyes and, with the slightest tilt, leans his head into Jackson’s hand.

“You wanna know why I marked him up?” Jackson asks, hand tightening around Reid’s jaw. His eyes snap open, but Jackson just stares. 

“I did it ‘cause he asked me to,” Jackson says, voice low. “I did it ‘cause he wanted me to, and didn’t look at me afterward like I-- as if I’d--” He stops and lets go of Reid’s jaw. Reid looks at him. 

“As if you’d what?” 

“As if I’d saved him.” 

Reid raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?” 

“You heard me.” 

Reid looks, for a moment, as if he is going to punch Jackson in the jaw. But then he straightens and moves past him, slamming the door to the deadroom.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> episode 8 and beyond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this has been sitting in a google doc for awhile. unbeta'd

Reid keeps a goddamn vigil next to his cell. 

It’s inconvenient, mostly, because Jackson’s bored and _worried_ and can’t do anything to take his mind off it, especially not with Reid there, watching him like a hawk. 

“You think I did it,” he says one night, leaning heavily against the bars, his arms peeking through the metal. Reid looks up at him and raises an eyebrow.

“You think so little of me?” He sounds hurt. Jackson scoffs.

“Why else would you waste your time here? You wanna make sure I don’t-- _Ahh fuck!_ ” Reid grabs Jackson’s arm and pulls him roughly through the bars, his face pressed uncomfortably against the metal. Reid leans close and stares.

“What’s the matter with you?” Jackson asks, struggling, but Reid tightens his grip, making Jackson groan. The sound echoes against the stone and iron and Jackson can feel his heartbeat in his wrist where Reid’s hand has wrapped around. 

“You would do better not to insult me,” Reid growls at him, eyes flashing, and Jackson tilts his head. 

“Really?” Jackson asks, raising an eyebrow. “Then you should enlighten me as to why I’ve had the pleasure of entertaining your company the past five nights.” 

Reid’s face softens, and his grip loosens. “Do you really not know?” 

Jackson slips his arm free, back into the cell. He shakes his head. Reid comes forward and rests his head against the bars, sighing.

“You, Captain Jackson, are all I have left,” he says, and Jackson shifts, uncomfortable. He’s not sure about that-- about being all someone has left. For so long he’s looked out for himself and Susan (but really just mostly himself because he’s not stupid enough to think that Susan can’t take care of herself) that he doesn’t even know how he would begin to factor someone else into that equation. But, if he really thinks about it, that’s what he’s been doing these past months. Looking out for Reid and Drake and the people of Whitechapel in general. Huh. A halfway honest man in jail. Not surprising.

Jackson approaches the bars, sticking a hand through to grab onto Reid’s tie and then sliding his hand up to Reid’s face. He runs his thumb over Reid’s bottom lip, and his gaze flicks up to his eyes. 

“Then you better spend all your time tryin’ to save me,” he murmurs.

\---

He ends up proving his own innocence (which isn’t surprising, no one around here can do anything right, it seems) and getting the cuffs removed just in time for all of them to solve the case. Everything seems to always work out for them, except he knows that Reid thought he’d found his daughter but hadn’t and Drake sent Rose on her way for good. 

Sometimes, Jackson feels like the only normal one out of the three of them. 

But they still manage to work together without killing one another (or anyone else, for that matter) and it’s fine. Jackson and Reid have a sort of unspoken thing between them-- an energy that goes unacknowledged for both their sakes. 

Reid’s trying to patch things up with Emily which is, by all accounts, the _right_ thing to do but it still makes the muscles in Jackson’s shoulders tense uncomfortably when he thinks about it. An advantage, though, is that he rarely sees the two of them outside of the station, so it’s not a feeling he deals with much. 

And he finds when it does crop up, that a shot or two (or five) of whiskey makes it disappear like it was never there.


	5. chapter five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> set in the dead space between seasons, and episode 1 & 2 of the second season

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> un-beta'd. hope to write more as the season progresses! <3

Reid is drunk. 

Not only is Reid drunk, he’s drunk in the bar that Jackson frequents, that Jackson knows that Reid knows that Jackson frequents, sitting slumped over the bar, empty shot glass in his hand. 

“A good night, Inspector?” Jackson asks, voice low, leaning next to Reid’s ear. Reid straightens, looks at him, eyes glassy.

“Not in the least,” he says, tapping his fingers on the bar for more. Jackson intercepts it, shaking his head and leans between Reid and the bar the best he can. Reid reaches up, sticks two fingers into the tiny pocket in Jackson’s waistcoat and tugs. Jackson laughs. 

“Care to elaborate?” Jackson says, his fingers wrapping around Reid’s wrist. They’re at the end of the bar, definitely in a shadow, and the bar’s crowded enough that no one will notice. Hopefully. 

“Emily’s left.” Jackson blinks, tilts his head.

“What?” he asks, and Reid laughs. 

“She’s moved permanently into her own home for abused women.” He laughs again, the sound of it so bitter that Jackson can almost taste it. 

“She’d rather divorce you than try to work it out--”

“No, no. No divorcing. She’s just left. We’re to remain married.” He doesn’t look too happy about it, though. Jackson pauses for a moment, looking over Reid’s face. 

“And if you want to take another wife?” 

Reid shakes his head. “I’ll have no other. I’m no good at-- it’s simpler this way.” 

Jackson looks at him a moment more and pushes himself upright again. “Pay your tab,” he says, removing Reid’s hand from his waistcoat. 

“What?” 

“Pay your tab,” Jackson repeats, nodding when Reid pulls out some coins and leaves them there. He helps Reid off the stool, an arm around his waist and another pulled around his shoulders, and tries not to be too distracted by Reid’s smell as he walks him home.

\---

A lot can change in two years. Reid’s alone, Drake’s married and Jackson finds himself nosing between Susan’s legs more nights than not, and if you’d asked him if there were any chance of that two years ago, he’d have laughed in your face. 

But still, time changes all, especially people, and he knew he’d wear Susan down eventually. 

The thing with Reid, though, that’s… difficult to explain. He doesn’t want to say it was as simple as Reid sliding into depression and refusing Jackson’s help, because that seems too easy somehow. Like it takes away the meaning of what they had. And hell, did they have anything? Jackson sure as shit doesn’t know. He only knows that sometimes he wakes when the sky’s still gray with sleep and swears he can feel Reid’s warmth beside him. (He turns to look each time, but it’s only ever Susan.) He isn’t sure what any of it means. 

So, he does what he can. He goes to work to earn his living like the upstanding citizen he is and goes home, fucks around, and dreams of leaving this place. He’s never been for one place very long, and they’ve been in London much longer than he’s lived anywhere else. He feels it like an itch just under his skin, on the bottom of his feet through his boots, and it makes him antsy. Short-tempered and agitated. Something needs to change. They’ve been stagnant too long. Too long. 

But, in the end, he’s always weak to Susan’s wishes. She wants to stay, so they’ll stay. She seems insistent that it ruin Reid to lose them too, but he’s not entirely sure when Susan started caring about him. 

He’s in his room one day when one of her girls, some redheaded thing-- meant to replace Bella, no doubt-- knocks on his door. 

He answers it shirtless, and the girl doesn’t even flinch. He doesn’t know what he expected. 

“Here, sir,” the girl says, holding out a large bag. Jackson’s laundry. Right. He forgot it was that time. 

“Thanks,” he says, giving the girl a wink. “Now get gone.”

Once she has, he opens the bag to put them away, but the first one he pulls out is much too large for him. It’s not usual for clients to leave their shirts, and it definitely ain’t policy for them to wash ‘em, anyway. 

But, no-- This one’s got a name in it. Reid. 

Well. Ain’t that interesting.

\--- 

“You think I ain’t smart enough to know when another man’s shirts are bein’ laundered under my roof?” He shouts it at the wrong time, during a fight with Susan that Reid happens to walk in on. It’s not his fault, and Jackson knows that. He knows Reid wouldn’t take advantage of Susan like that, especially not when she’s fixed things with Jackson. He only says it-- it doesn’t matter why he says it, because Susan goes and tells Reid about how Jackson wants to leave. The look of betrayal on Reid’s face makes Jackson bristle. 

And it’s not that he wants to leave, really, he just thinks all this good that’s happenin’-- it can’t last. 

\---

Jackson leans heavily against the railing outside of Reid’s house. He knows the Inspector’s here-- he wasn’t in the station-- but it’s deciding whether or not it’s worth it to open this can of worms. 

He takes one last inhale of his cigarette and stamps it out, coughing before giving the bell a ring. 

Reid answers, pulling a jacket on. 

“Going somewhere?” Jackson says, and Reid frowns. 

“No, that would be your desire,” he says, monotone, as he steps aside to let Jackson in. 

“Look, Reid--” 

“I don’t want to hear it, Captain,” Reid says, waving a hand to cut him off. “What do you need?” 

Jackson shrugs, scratches the back of his neck and walks through the door. “Just came to apologize. For earlier.” 

The door clicks behind him and he turns to find Reid looking at him how he sometimes looks at one of their victims. His gaze full of cold distance and just a hint of sadness. Is that where he ranks now? Just above another on the slab? Like some mystery to be figured out? Maybe he was never anything more than that. 

“I see,” Reid says, finally, his hand moving to the lock on the door. Precaution, no doubt. It isn’t the best neighborhood, after all. He removes his jacket, and Jackson scoffs, putting his hands on his hips. 

“I’m sorry, all right? Those things I was sayin’ to Susan, about leaving--” He takes a deep breath. “Just hard for me to stick in one place too long. That’s all.” 

“And you would just go? Leave in the middle of the night without informing anyone?” 

“Reid--” 

“Do I not merit at least a warning?” Reid takes a step forward, and Jackson sighs. “A note slipped under my door? _Nothing_?” He’s got that look on his face, the beaten dog look, and Jackson rubs a hand over his own face. 

“If we were actually gonna leave, I’d tell you, Reid. Convincing Susan’s half the battle, and now that--” He sighs, waves a hand. “It doesn’t matter now. Not going anywhere for awhile.” 

There’s a silence that stretches for awhile, and Reid finally clears his throat. 

“Fine,” he says, looking away. Jackson steps forward, reaches out to put a hand on Reid’s chest. He knows he has no right. He was the one who stopped it, wasn’t he? But when he’d tried again, after Emily-- he hadn’t been met with much enthusiasm. That was his own fault too. Too soon. Too many emotions. It was only partly pity, but still. Reid deserved more than that, he knew. 

But Reid doesn’t stop him now, and Jackson’s hand makes contact, slides up to his shoulder. He feels Reid’s intake of breath, like he hasn’t been touched in months, and hell, that’s probably right, isn’t it?

“How’s the shoulder?” Jackson’s voice is a murmur, and Reid scoffs. 

“It’ll survive,” he says, and leans down to take Jackson’s mouth with his own. Jackson makes a sound of approval, slides his hand from Reid’s shoulder to his neck, finger scratching at the back of his head. Reid frames one of his hips with a hand and moves them down the hall.

Jackson knows the trip well, and frankly, he’s glad he’s distracted by the buttons on Reid’s shirt to really notice how cold and empty the place is. Cleaner, better lived in, maybe, but colder. Emptier. At least it doesn’t reek of dying flowers, though. 

The bed’s as hard as he remembers, but Reid’s hands are better, his mouth just as demanding, so Jackson loses himself in it, lets himself be the selfish bastard everyone expects him to be. Afterwards, he even lets himself sleep in the warm bed, and doesn’t even worry about what Susan will think.


	6. chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this contains MAJOR SPOILERS for the end of series 3. watch it before you read it! thank you <3

Jackson dreams of the sea. 

He’s made his peace with this place -- with the persistent filth and grime of Whitechapel and all its sorry inhabitants -- and he’s settled. Hell, sometimes he even manages to convince himself that he likes it. 

Now, though, now that he’s stumbled on Reid and his daughter trying to escape and hooked Reid back in, now that Reid lies in a bed in Susan’s clinic, comatose for the foreseeable future with little chance of recovery, well. Now, Jackson dreams of the sea. 

A small cottage so close to the seaside that you can smell the salt and feel the spray of the waves on your face. So close that you can take off your shoes and dig your toes into the sand. Jackson doesn’t have much experience with beaches, not the saltwater kind, at least, but he thinks he might like it there, somewhere peaceful and quiet. His life’s been loud enough these past eight years; he imagines the quiet, as boring as it may be, may finally settle the dull flutter in his chest. 

He’s not alone in the dreams, always accompanied by someone just out of sight. When he wakes, he hardly remembers -- more likely the whisky’s doing than anything else -- but he can always recall strong hands, dark hair and the sound of a laugh that fills him with pure joy. 

He assumes it to be Mimi, but in his heart he knows better. 

\---

Reid wakes on the fifth day and Susan calls for Jackson immediately. He makes it there quickly, ignoring Abbeline’s protests as he’s out the door, leaving a behind body in his dead room. 

“The dead will keep,” he shouts, making for the clinic. He’s too far gone to hear the Chief Inspector’s reply. 

He’s panting by the time he gets to Reid’s door and pauses, ear turned to listen. He hears a murmur of voices, high and feminine, and a deep, rumbling chuckle that sends a spike of relief into his heart so quickly it almost hurts. 

Reid is propped up in the bed, back supported by pillows and his head bandaged. His eyes are mostly the same, perhaps a little unfocused compared to the sharp, discerning gaze that Jackson has seen so recently on him. 

“Inspector,” he says, still breathless from the run. The heads in the room all turn to him, but it’s only Reid he cares about. He steps in cautiously, someone puts a chair by Reid’s bedside and Jackson takes it. 

“If you’ll excuse us,” Dr. Frayn says softly, bowing her head before exiting the room. Susan follows her, and Jackson reaches out, putting a hand over Reid’s. Reid looks at him, his gaze questioning but soft, fond like Jackson hasn’t seen it in quite awhile. 

“You’ve come,” he says, and Jackson snorts. 

“You still think so little of me that you believed I wouldn’t?” 

“No,” Reid says, sounding aghast. “Of course not, I -- I mean, I’d hoped but. There never is much cause for hope when it comes to us, is there?” 

Jackson looks at him, takes in the bandage and the night clothes and recalls their last conversation. “No,” he says softly. “I suppose there’s not.”

\---

If there’s one thing to be said for Edmund Reid, it’s that he hardly gives up on anything without a fight. He’d fought for Jackson, once, but those days are long past and it’s too difficult to find the time or to see the good in it when things always end up the same in this place. 

So, all in all, Jackson’s not surprised Reid still hasn’t left, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t think Reid’s a fucking idiot for staying. 

“You’ve got your daughter back,” Jackson tells him one night, crowded together in the dead room over a corpse, just like old times. “You’ve got a real chance at something good for yourself, Reid. Something away from all this filth and evil. Why don’t you just take her and go?” 

Reid does not answer, just stares at the body before him and adjusts his spectacles. “It’s not as simple as you make it seem, Captain,” he says eventually, but offers nothing else. 

Four years ago, Jackson would’ve fight with him, would’ve told him he was being ridiculous and obsessive and whatever else it took to get him to go. But Jackson knows that it’s useless, knows that Reid is immoveable when he wants to be, when he sets his mind to something. Reid’s here til the end for this one, so the only thing Jackson can do is help him solve it. 

\---

It’s years before he makes it there. Years spent with Drake and Rose and Susan in Whitechapel, years spent dodging death and bringing justice to those who deserve it and years spent trying his hardest to be a good man. He’s not sure if he succeeds, but he figures he at least balanced out some of the shit he’s done. 

It’s not a goal, it’s not something he strives toward, it’s not something he rewards himself with. At the end, it’s just a choice he makes. Pack up his belongings, give his notices and hop on a train, straight to the sea. 

He smells it before he can see it, the salt in the air, making it heavy but clean somehow, like he can breathe a little easier. 

The train stops and he makes his way to the shore, asking a few people if they could point him in the right direction. He ends up standing before a row of houses maybe a half mile from the shore, close enough that sand litters the street and the paint on the houses has puckered up from the moisture and salt in the air. 

Jackson spots her down at the end of the row, red hair giving her away immediately, the freckles on her face standing out even more from a life in the sun. 

She watches him approach, giving him a smile as he sets his bags down. 

“I don’t reckon you remember me,” he says, but she shakes her head. 

“Of course I do. Doesn’t everyone?” 

Jackson laughs and she shows him inside. “He’s upstairs,” she says. “In his study.” 

He nods a thank you to her and climbs, running a hand over the wallpaper. It’s quaint, floral and muted green, somehow both reminiscent and completely different than the house in East London. Pictures line the wall, of Mathilda, of Reid, of Emily, and a few of people they once knew. Jackson spots himself in a picture with Drake outside the Brown Bear and can’t recall it being taken. 

He stands in the doorway to the study, staring at Reid’s back. There’s a large window just in front of him, looking out onto the street. Jackson shifts and the floor creaks beneath him, and Reid turns sharply in his chair. 

“Oh,” he says, and then nothing else. 

“Fancied myself a change of scenery,” Jackson says finally, into the silence. Reid’s eyebrows furrow, and he tilts his head slightly. 

“With Susan?” 

Jackson shakes his head, stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Alone.” 

“I see,” Reid says, and turns back to his desk. 

\---

Later, they go for a walk on the shore, all three of them barefoot and Mathilda running through the spray as if she were still a child. Reid watches her and laughs, the sound feeling different than every time Jackson’s ever heard it. Happier, maybe. More real, somehow. 

And yet, exactly like a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at last, after a two year break! I marathoned the third season and knew I had to write out an ending for this. I will not be updating this anymore, and thank you so much for reading!


End file.
